


Severance

by Hrafnsvaengr



Category: Original Work
Genre: -shrug-, By which I mean it's a generational story, Epistolary, F/M, Family Story, Historical, I dunno what else to tag this as really, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrafnsvaengr/pseuds/Hrafnsvaengr
Summary: A shipwreck, a small town, an actress, a family of lighthousekeepers, and an old lighthouse overlooking Severance Bay. The world is changing around the small coastal towns in Wilcestershire, and it remains uncertain whether the people who live there can change with it or if they'll end up a living relic of a lost past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Part I: Henry**

* * *

 

**Chapter I:**

The lighthouse on Severance Bay stood at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the grey waters. The cliffs weren't the most impressive along that stretch of coast, but the rocks below them were sharp enough to sink any ship unwary enough to attempt to find shelter in the bay's shallow water. The lighthouse had, in one form or another, stood at the mouth of the bay for as long as anyone could remember.

It had, only a dozen years past, been painted in thick stripes of red and white, but the salt and the spray had stripped all but the bottom third of the tower, leaving the top the dull grey of the stone it was made from. Where once the great black iron braziers had been, filled with fire, now at the top of the tower stood three arc lamps behind huge lenses. They blared with a light of warning, sweeping over the horizon a few times every minute in a steady pulse. Danger. Danger. Rocks below. Danger. Inside the brooding shape though remained much as it had for the past hundred years.

Despite the lamp being electrified for a good decade, inside was still lit by oil and warmed by lumps of coal, delivered every Thursday from the town of Severance, two miles up the road.

If you went another seven miles up the road, you would find the railway station guarding over the town of Hotheby, which the older folks still pronounce Hothe'y if they know the name at all; for most, when they were children it was just called The Town, for where else was there to go from the town of Severance but to Hotheby?

The road runs along the coast, always staying within a mile of the sea, only moving inland to go around some long-gone forest which now was simply fields for shepherds and farmers. All the forests in the county had been cut down centuries ago to fuel the fires warming the houses of the people of Hotheby and Severance and all the other towns in the area.

Now, if you were to go back to Hotheby and Severance today, you would find them much the same as they were then. There are fewer people than once there were, and the railroad no longer trundles along this way from the county seat to the east, but the docks still guard the harbour and house fishing boats which are themselves home to hard, leather-skinned men. And the lighthouse at Widower's Point still stands guard at the mouth of Severance Bay.

At the very centre of town in Severance was a small house, hemmed in on all sides by the much larger houses and shops of businessmen and their broods. Unlike its lofty neighbours, the house had no shops on the ground floor and no spacious quarters above. It contained only enough room for a very small family, and even then there was little space to spare once the people were inside. The floor was covered in straw, the fireplace in the corner still acting as both furnace and oven for the small family inside.

It was in that house that my father was born, and his father before him. It was in that house that I was born. That house, standing between the monger to the left and the butcher to the right was the smallest house in town, and perhaps the only one given a name. It was called the Tor, from the old word for tower. A lofty name not given to the tiny place for its size but for the people who lived inside. For you see, the Tor was always the home for the family of the keeper of the lighthouse overlooking Severance Bay. The wives and children of the lonely men in the tower overlooking the sea.

The Tor was built around the same time as the old church in Severance, though that burnt down some four or five generations ago now and was rebuilt in Hotheby. Severance had once been a market town, overshadowing Hotheby with its greater wealth and influence. Then, when the railroad came, Hotheby suddenly became The Town, while Severance remained only The Village. Slowly, Severance was emptied of its weekly market stalls, its large kirk, and its mill, being left as a place whose sole reason for being was its own name. The Tor was knocked down, of course. It stood for generation after generation, housing the families of the lighthouse, and then, one day, the butcher bought it. Then the butcher was bought out by the monger, and then he was bought out too. The centre of Severance is empty now. The houses and stores are gone and what's left of them lays beneath the town roundabout that was created for cars to drive through to get to other places.

***

My father was born on the 22nd of May at four o'clock in the morning. He was christened a week later in the church in Hotheby and given the name James William Partridge. His father did not attend his christening, so his uncle Thomas was there instead, along with his mother, Catherine and two sisters, Anna and Louise.

After the brief ceremony, Catherine paid the priest the princely sum of tuppence for the service and all of them spent the afternoon walking back home to Severance, James William Partridge stowed carefully away in a bundle against his mother's chest.

It was three years later before my father has any memories, so he said. He remembered sitting on his father's lap looking out over the Bay with his father's firm grip around his waist. Anna and Louise were there as well, their legs dangling lazily over the rough edge of the cliff, tossing pebbles into the calm water below.

“I don't remember anything but that, David. Just that one scene, like a painting in my mind. But I remember every inch of it.” my father once said to me, recounting that day by the sea. His mother and father spent very little time together. She worked in our small house in Severance, he kept watch over the lighthouse. It was only on Sundays that they would see each other.

Every Sunday, just as dawn broke, Catherine Partridge would wake up her three children and they would pack three bags with food, for James was still too small to carry one himself, and they would walk together to the Bay.

They would wake up the elder Partridge and together they would spend the day playing games on the wide field sloping away on either side of the road to the lighthouse, and Catherine would spend some time with Henry, though to the children he was only Father and to Catherine he was always Hal.

I never got the chance to meet my grandfather, but from what I know, Hal was a good man. He was tall, although he often seemed smaller than he was because he was a stocky man—like all the men in my family have been, actually. His black hair was kept short, though his early-greying beard was bristly and wild, and his eyes—the people of Severance always said that they could tell one of the lighthouse keeper's family by the eyes; always grey—like the sea, they would often say.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Monday 28th August 1865 --- Weather remains fair _

My Dearest Cat,

I know that you just left a half a day ago, but I wanted to write you. You don't often reply to my letters, at least not in kind, but I know that you read them. The smile on your face when I see you walking up the path with our little ones tells me so.

The moon last night shone so brightly against the water that I could swear there was two of them. One hanging in the air, the other sunk beneath the waves like the gems of the merfolk. Did Anna tell you that she saw one of them yesterday? Well, of course she must have. You two are thick as thieves nowadays. I hope Louise is eating well, she seems to be getting thinner. I'll put a note of credit for 2/6 in the letter for you and you can take the children out and buy them each a small tart. I know I should be saving every farthing for when winter comes and the girls need new shoes, but a half-crown for some pies and a nice piece of beef for supper won't break us, and the rest can be put toward the groceries for next week. The money from the county is only a month away now, and we'll be able to pay the last of what we owe the tailor then on Michaelmas.

I hear that Harold has decided to move to Hotheby to become an apprentice. Please give him my regards and tell him to watch out for pickpockets! When he last went to Town, he lost a shilling to the baker on some stale bread, I'd hate to be him when his father when he hears that story!

I hope you are having a wonderful day, my treasure. I shouldn't dawdle long on this letter though. A boat wrecked out on The Pinheads upcoast last night and I'm to keep watch for survivors in the Bay. If they aren't careful, they'll wreck their rowboat on the rocks down there.

Yours in eternity,

Hal.

***

Henry Partridge folded his letter and sealed it with a daub of wax. He would fold it in the kerchief with his other letters to be taken by the coalman on Thursday, along with a penny for his efforts. He knew that Albert was a stupid man, more of a boy really, but he was strong and dependable. Albert, known around town only as Alby, was made simple by an accident many years in his past by a kick from his father's horse. He still smiled crookedly and his personal dictionary contained only a hundred or so words, but he was a kind soul. Standing taller than any other man in the Village and at least half again as broad, it was a good thing Smith was never without a smile on his face.

With the letter written, Hal put on his warmest coat and his sturdy boots and stepped out of the lighthouse. His lighthouse. To him it felt more a home than the Tor ever had. Since he was only a small stripling of a boy he had spent his days in the lighthouse with his father, tending the lamp, watching the bay. The days were often spent napping in the hammock which made up the only bed in the place. The nights, dark foggy things that they were, consisted of standing at the top of the tower, peering out into the heavy black wine of the sea. It was, more often than not, dark enough that sea and sky became a single piece of black velvet lain across the eyes.

He stood with his hand on the wall of the tower, the rough surface standing sturdy against the hard wind. There would be a storm tonight. Red sky at morning, sailor's take--he thought of the Tor. Its window would be shining bright tonight. A roaring fire, a pot of warm stew. What was it Cat had said? Anna was already able to write her name? She was a smart one, that Anna. Hal could write his name only because he had been forced to learn by his mother. She had been the daughter of a clergyman in Hotheby.

‘Hotheby, Hotheby, where the good girl's gotta be’--The young folks sing less than he used to as a child. Or, at least, less than other children did. He never sang--wasn't any good at it, was he? He whistled though. ‘We're down to Severance-town my boy! Aye, down the rocky way.’--What was the rest of the tune? He'd remember. He had all day to fiddle around with it to sort it out. It would be a cold one. ‘The cold it blows in Sev'rance Bay! Aye, down the rocky way.’


	3. Chapter 3

The man's skin was pale and his lips a dark blackish blue. He had the wild red hair of an Irishman. Probably a deckhand recruited from the bars Belfast or Dublin. The admiral's bargain. The captain would put a gold crown in the bottom of a pinter full of the darkest ale they had. If you could get the coin out in one movement without spilling a drop, you could keep it. If not, well, you'd be earning that gold crown the long way round on Her Majesty's fleets.

Around, splintered on the rocks of the shore, was the lifeboat. Or at least, what pieces of the lifeboat hadn't already sunk to the bottom of the Bay. The larger pieces still showed the tangled remains of rope and heavy green lettering ‘H.M.Q.S. Fireguard’. Her Majesty's Queensland Ship Fireguard. The irony of a ship named Fireguard being felled by a torrent of water would not be lost amongst the less subtle newspapers, if they paid any attention at all. The only thing the newspapers cared about these days was the fashions of the young Queen and the wind that issued from the loose-hinged mouths of Her Majesty's ministers.

Henry Partridge found the young seaman some time after midday, around that time of day when the fogs start rolling back in after being burnt off by the passing of noonhour.

Some days, when the weather was just right in the winter, the cliffs of Severance Point would jut above the billowing fogs of the Bay below, holding the vapours like a chalice of sacramental wine. The clergyman in Hotheby sometimes referred to the Bay as 'The Lord's Ciborium'. The light from the lighthouse standing above dipping itself into the bay like the Host in church. Hal had never been a particularly religious man. The hoc est corpus and pie iesu were only so much Hocus pocus! and Peas say ‘Sue!’ to him. It wasn't that he didn't believe in a God. Far from it. It was just that he didn't see God in the silken robes of the priests or the golden goblets of sacred wine.

The God that Hal Partridge knew lived in the Bay. It still required that he take the sacrament, the intinction of host into wine--hoc est corpus meum sanguis meusque quod pro vobis funditur--and by the passing of his light over the House of the Lord shall He know him. Hal Partridge lived not in fear of a heavenly father, but in awe of the majesty of His home in the foggy hallows that lined each cliff's wall. Four walls of stone and a vault of cloud overhead--there shall you find the God of Hal Partridge.

***

It was the first time in many weeks that Hal had been into the Village--it never changed enough to notice the time anyway. The Village was a static place, despite the constant bustle of people going here, going there, buying, selling, building, tearing down, just generally working. The Town was a place where people with some small fortunes might go; but the Village, it was a place for doing.

As Hal walked into town, pulling his small wagon behind him, he nodded at the people he passed. Francis the butcher, John the cartwright, William the monger. None nodded back. They saw the heavy roughspun cloth draped over Hal's cargo and knew that he wasn't coming to buy some more vegetables to store in the small cellar below the lighthouse.

He pulled up in front of the house of Smith Carter the undertaker. Even though the kirk at Severance had become the kirk at Hotheby, the undertaker still held his office in a small shop in Severance near the derelict site of the old church. Smith was a man of no fortune, but he lived well enough to give even the poorest of the Severancefolk a proper burial. He would go around town, collecting some small amount of coin for the casket and then cart them, just like he did the richest of the Village, down the road those seven miles to the church in the Town.

With the care of rough work-hard hands, Hal pulled his cargo out from the wagon and carried it around to the back of the undertaker's small shop. There was a small shed in the back where Smith had told any visitors to stay. Even if he were not home, the shed was in the shade of a large ash, and it was cool enough that nobody would putrefy before he could get to see them. He never left town for more than a day, and even those occasions were on the baptism of his children.

The Irishman lay on the hard table in the shed, his wild red mane frizzing out over the edges of the wood boards beneath him. If Smith could make this poor man look himself again, there truly must be sorcery in his methods. Despite Hal's care in moving the body, he saw that its skin was a bit paler, a bit greener, and the lips a bit more of the rich purple of ripe plums.

A voice behind him caught his attention, “Yes? Who's there? And who brought them here?” called Smith's oddly reedy voice. If there were ever a man to better match his voice, Hal hadn't found it. Smith's eyes were a watery blue, still clear like ice, but the flesh around them had sagged and pulled like melting pastry. His hair was black and held beneath a tight cap. Not a single smile had ever crossed Smith's face without the two sides of it disagreeing on the matter.

“Hal. Hal Partridge. With one of Her Majesty's seamen from the wreck last night.” he said with a gesture to the bundle of wiry red hair and sackcloth behind him. “He washed up in the Bay. No one else yet, just him.”

Smith wrung his hands, worrying at the white flesh of them. “And I don't suppose he happened to have a golden chest stashed with him when he washed up on your shore? A small parcel of rubies perhaps?”

Hal frowned. Smith was a miser--it was said around town that he pinched his farthings like most men did shillings--but the undertaker wasn't this niggardly about his work. Especially when it was plain for anyone that the seaman hadn't the coin to rub one royal face against another.

“I jest. Of course.” Smith said with a thin smile. It was an unpleasant expression on his pasty face. “I merely wanted to inquire as to whom was planning on paying for this man's...future.”

“He's a navy man. The navy will pay for it--they always do.” said Hal.

“Of course, of course. I'll just walk over to the navy post in Town while he lays on the table here. It won't be but a day or so.” said Smith with an obsequious little smile.

A more thoroughly odious man was not to be found in this county or the next. He did his job and gave his services for free, but that only made up for so much miserliness.

“I'll go.” said Hal, ‘I need to see them about the wreck as it is.’ he thought. “I'll bring a note from an officer. They'll make you whole.”

Smith wrung his hands again; flesh oozing over flesh. “Then I'll start making this beast into a man again. One mustn't disrespect the dead, of course, but...it is so much easier to do when they don't look the part.” he cackled.


	4. Chapter 4

**H.M.Q.S. Fireguard Felled Off English Coast!**

_ \-- Thursday 31st August 1865 -- George Haversham --  
_ _ \-- Hotheby, Wilc'shire -- _

In what has been called the worst maritime disaster to occur off the coast of Wilcestershire in more than twenty years, the colonial ship H.M.Q.S. Fireguard has been wrecked on the Pinheads, a notorious stretch of rocky coast near the towns of Hotheby and Severance.

Despite repeated sightings of the Fireguard heading up the coast toward the county seat in Wilcester, the ship was feared lost when a squall blew in around midnight.

The now notorious Pinheads are a rock formation along the coast near Severance Bay resembling their namesake very little. More similar to the better-known Needles, from which they get their name in analogy, the Pinheads were implicated in the famous wrecking of the H.M.S. Warwick twenty-four years ago during a winter storm.

The Fireguard had been going to Wilcester with communiqués from the colonial government in Queensland, Australia. It is rumoured by some in the current government that the documents, now lost, contained information about potential military preparations by the Dutch for an invasion from the Dutch East Indies holdings in Batavia.

It is believed by most that the documents were destined for the hands of the Admiralty stationed in H.M. dockyards in Hotheby, Wilcestershire, with Admiral Walter Ashley the likely intended recipient.

No survivors have been recovered, although the search continues along the length of coastline between Severance and Hotheby. One crewman appears to have been recovered deceased from Severance Bay. It is thought that he, along with any other poor souls, yet unrecovered from the lifeboat, sought refuge in the bay. Severance Bay is well known in the area for its shallow water and jagged rocks below, and the lighthouse standing on Severance Point is well known amongst seamen for its staggered three-pulse warning lamp, recently electrified with funds from H.M. Navy.

Whether the lighthouse was non-functional at the time of the incident is not known, but some suspect that it may have been for the well-seasoned captain of the Fireguard to have blundered into the Pinheads at all.

This paper will not speculate on the causes of the wreck, but may God give what is due to any man who left his post and so injured H.M. name and Navy. May God rest the souls of the Captain, His Grace, the Duke George Marksbury II, of Marksbury; the First Lieutenant, Earl Gerald Williams, heir to the Earldom of Windthrope; and Lady Radley, well-known actress from Queensland and wife of the Baronet of Bremer.

Despite the frantic actions now, all can be sure that justice will be found in Hotheby, Wilcestershire.

***

On Naval Street in Hotheby stands the imposing bulk of the Admiralty Building for the county of Wilcestershire. While the county seat sits inland on what remains of the Roman road, Hotheby lies nestled into a crook in the coastline of Wilcestershire. The building is large white columned monstrosity decorated in the style of someone with more money than taste. Above each window is a large formerly-gilt swirl of carved stone, above each door is a starkly Classical pediment of a rosy hue, and every surface which juts more than a couple of inches from the wide front is carried by an absurdly heavy column.

Inside the iron-banded doors, the interior is mercifully done in traditional wood panelling and portraiture, along with numerous lush rugs brought back from the Orient by Their Majesties' captains of years past.

“And whom are you?” asked the haughty man inside the front doors as Hal stepped inside. “This is the Admiralty, you know. Even on a fine Tuesday like this, one mustn't just walk in unannounced.”

Hal gave the man an annoyed look, “My name is Henry Partridge. Lighthousekeeper at Severance Bay. I have news of the wreck.”

“Oh. Well. This way.” said the man with a sniff. He walked away from his post in quick, long strides.

Hal followed the man, his head turning to look at marble busts of anonymous captains and paintings of long-nameless ships. The Champion, the Beaveridge, the Dublin Shanty. Wherever the ships were now, the paintings did nothing to aid in the remembering of them.

After a few moments, the sniffing doorman's shoes clipping sharply against the shining stone floor stopped.

“Wait here.” he said. He left Hal alone, quietly knocking on, then slipping through a heavy door of dark, ornately carved wood.

Hal Partridge looked around, turning on the soft leather sole of his shoes. He whistled quietly to himself as he looked at the two large paintings on the walls framing the doors. 'One day I sat there on the cliffs, aye down the rocky way.' The hallways here were a veritable forest of masts and aristocratic noses. No matter which way you looked, you were getting poked in the eye by a haughty beak or bored to tears by yet another ship flying one variation of the flag of the Union or another.

Next to the large painting of the Flagstaff, a ship with at least one mast and about one shiplength long, stood a bust of a grotesquely wrinkled man in a stupid hat. If there was one thing that could be said about the navy, they did keep the stupid hat industry afloat.

Hal smiled at his own pun. Afloat. Maybe that's why they wore those hats? Floatation devices? What was it his father had told him? 'Along the road, a bonny girl, aye down the rocky way.' If it's wide and flat, it'll probably float? Perhaps why so many of the officers were so fat. Protection. And the crewmen so skinny. They were expendable so you needed to keep the weight down. Fit more whisky in a ship if you're not filling it with plump Englishmen. Did the navy drink whisky? No, they drank gin and brandy. Or rum? Whatever it was, it was more important than tip-topping a ship with the folds of well-fed flesh, surely.

“Ahem.” coughed the doorman. “You will be seen now.”


	5. Chapter 5

"It is simply inconceivable that a captain of His Grace's standards would wreck his ship on the Pinheads if he knew they were there." said Admiral Walter Ashley. He was a stern looking man with pinched lips and a stout nose. Gold guarded every inch of his uniform in some form or another. "And I won't have you slandering the good Captain's name. It will go hard for you if you do."

Hal shrugged. He had been over that evening with the Admiral several times now, each time reaching the same impasse. "I don't know what to tell you, my lord. The lamps were lit all night. The oil was still full and in the morning all three lights were bright as the dawn."

"Come now, Mr Partridge. We all make mistakes from time to time. Maybe you went into the village and had a pint too many? If you just tell me the truth," said Ashley, patting Hal's hand in what he must have thought to be a consoling gesture, "I'll make sure your wife doesn't know."

"Sir, I don't like your implication. I've never once been called unfaithful, let alone been so. I came to tell you of your crewman in the undertaker's in Severance and to tell you that I saw no sign of either the ship nor her lifeboats until one washed up on my shore. If there's nothing else, I'll be going back to man my post. There's a storm coming tonight and I need to be there." said Hal, standing sharply.

 

“I haven’t dismissed you, Partridge. There’s no storm tonight and your place is here answering for yourself.” The Admiral stood quickly, dropping a heavy fist to his large desk with a thump.

“You don’t need to dismiss me, my lord. I’m not of the Navy.” replied Hal simply, putting back on his grey cloth cap and walking to the door. “Be sure you don’t stay at the admiralty too late, sir. You wouldn’t want to catch a cold in the rain.”

And with that, Hal let himself out. Behind him Admiral Ashley was still cajoling him to come back and face his accusers. Hal walked past the waiting doorman. The thin stupid-hatted man was trimming his nails with a small pocket knife and tossing the shavings under the portrait of the Flagstaff.

It wasn’t long before Hal was back out on the street, looking up at a clear blue sky. 'Back home. Maybe a stop to see Cat before I do. Won’t she be surprised when I show up with some sweets?'  Despite the men he’d met in the admiralty—daft as their hats they were—today was not a ruined day. It might be passing two o'clock, but there was still time to visit the Tor for supper.

***

Smith Carter looked over the note with the same care one of the gem cutters of the Low Countries might a large diamond.

If a scrupulous man takes care of the scruples, would that make Carter a grainulous man? Hal wasn't sure. Language was not the lighthouskeeper's strong point. Except under duress, he was often known as Silent Hal, despite the deep booming quality of his voice. It was odd for a man as big in most respects as Hal was for his reputation to be one of quiet adequacy.

"And who is this? Admiral Walter Ashley? Who's that?" Carter asked with a frown. The gesture was not so much an upside-down smile as an inside-out one.

"He's the man in charge of investigating the wreck. He's decided to give the crewman a proper funeral because no one else was recovered." said Hal.

Whenever possible, Hal avoided looking too closely at the undertaker's face. There was something about the way the eyes glistened moistly at the sight of the promissory note.

The note was written in the hand of the Admiral's secretary, all loops and curls. It proclaimed—for nothing written in such a hand could be said to 'say'—

_This note entitles the bearer summary payment of no more than the sum of Seventeen Pounds, Ten Shillings, and Four Pence (£17 10/4)  
upon receipt of the funerary papers of One deceased crewman of _H.M.Q.S. Fireguard _with proof of interment in the Royal Naval Cemetery at Wilcester.  
  
All such arrangements to be done at the behest and with the consent of a representative of Her Majesty's Navy.  
  
Signed, this day of our Lord, 29th &c. &c.,  
  
 **Admiral Walter Ashley, Duke of Westing,  
**_ _ **of Her Majesty's Navy, Hotheby,**_ __ **Wilcestershire.**

"And the Admiral himself signed it, I presume? I ask merely because it is such a rather lot of money, you see." said Smith.

"If you'd like I can go back and get him to sign in his own blood if that would satisfy you." At this rate, it would be too late to visit the Tor on his way home. Damn the undertaker and his wheedling. "Take the money. It's more than you'll see for any other funeral this year."

"Of course, of course. It's only a precaution, my dear Hal." the undertaker smiled. It was almost worse than the frown.

"Will you be visiting your dear children and your lovely wife today, I wonder? It is getting rather late. Perhaps you'd better off before it gets much later." said Smith Carter congenially. "Do give my regards to the lovely Mrs Partridge, won't you?"

Hal grumbled his consent and strode out of the undertaker's small shed, having been dismissed by the whinging man once again fondling his new fortune with his gaze.

***

In the evening, Severance was a quiet place. The cries of the monger's children  _Fresh fish! Best in three counties! Even the Londoners are begging for it!_ were replaced by the slow cawing of sea birds. The swift cuts of the butcher's knife  _Snick! Crack! Swickt! Crunch!_ were replaced by the occasional mumbling of a drunk from the Green Leaf, a public house on Harbour Street.

The village of Severance was, like many towns of its sort even down until today, built on a simple pattern. The town had three centres. One of labour, seated at the wide docks and harbour. One of commerce, splashed in a gob of grocers and workshops of all kinds on the High Road. And one of worship, built up around the site of the old Severance kirk atop the hill to the west of the markets. The only strangeness in the design of the town was the lopsided way the houses had matured.

Ordinarily in a town of this sort, in the three centres of the town the houses would be larger, newer, and closer together. It was such in Severance, barring the third centre, which could no longer hold up under its own weight without the heavy stones of the old church. The houses, of a grander and larger sort than most from their time, were nonetheless grown agèd and no longer fit in. A single slice of the town from when Severance had been the focus of attention in the area was preserved. The district was, much later, called the Amber District after a number of jewellers who had moved there from the Baltic—a mere handful of streets held static like a fly in sap.

"Race you to the docks! Winner gets the ball and devil take the hindmost!" cried a child's voice from behind Hal. Wrenlike laughter rushed up to meet him.

"Hello, Mr Partridge!" cried the young boy. Tim, the monger's son. And his sister, Liza. "Hello, Mr!" repeated his sister.

"Take care you don't stay out long. The night is coming." called Hal back to the two rushing bundles of energy. He smiled. The monger's children were always fighting over that little red ball. Not a day had gone by that he'd been in the Village that he hadn't heard some squabble about who'd had it longer and who had and hadn't the rights to it.

"Thank you, Mr Partridge!" the pair shouted in unison, passing around the corner and out of sight.

It was odd, now that Hal thought about it. He couldn't remember the last time he had been into town on a Tuesday. Perhaps the last time Alby the coalman had been sick? It must have been months back. Before the first snows this past winter. The road had been nearly impassable on New Year's last. Alby had given up coaxing his old nag up the hill with the load of coal and oil. Instead, the huge young man had bulled the cart up to the lighthouse himself, pushing the wheels through the snow when they wouldn't roll. It had taken nearly an hour in front of Henry's stove to stop him from shivering. Hal walked down the narrow roads of Severance, nodding at the few people he saw as he went. Jenny Carver the tailor's wife—old Albert Green the butcher's father—Big Will Jackson the diminutive fisherman from Hotheby. Each nodded and wished Hal a good evening.

He was almost home when a smile came to the big man's face. He hadn't had the time to buy some sweets for Cat and the children, but the girls would be happy enough seeing him as he was. His girls. They'd be women soon. It was only the other day he'd seen little Anna at her mother's chest with Louise clutching Cat's skirts.

Then along had come James, years after Anna and Louise had been born. James had been a surprise, but a welcome one. Who would have looked after the lighthouse if not for Hal's son? It probably would have gone to the council and run by them. It was little known among the townsfolk that the lighthouse was owned by the Partridge family. It was let to the council, which in turn let the Tor to the Partridges, who manned the lighthouse and earnt their bread off of the money so given by the Village. The Village probably got that money from the Navy or from the county. It didn't really matter, of course, so long as the money came. Still, Hal sometimes puzzled over it, trying to untangle the knots of debit and credit to find out who actually paid for what. He'd never come up with a good answer.

The last corner into the central square on which the Tor stood came and Hal slowed his pace. The windows of his home—his other home—were brightly lit. The door opened. James Carpenter came out the door, a smile on his face and a small bun in his hand. James Carpenter was a wealthy merchant who lived above his shop on High Street. He was known about town for his perpetual state of wifelessness, eschewing the company of a wife for that of his horse and dogs.

Few people in Severance were wealthy enough to own their own home, let alone one in the country. James had both. His home in the country was several counties over in Devonshire. It sat on several achres of land and was visited every third week by James Carpenter and his three hounds. As surely as you could set your clock by the tide in Severance Bay, you could set your calendar by the ins and outs of James Carpenter.

He walked away, Cat filling the door behind him. She had a smile on her face.

"Good evening, Henry." said James Carpenter. "Give my best to your wife Cat for me."


End file.
